Bonnie and Clyde in Detroit, 2004
by bluedana
Summary: T'pol and Archer go on a little crime spree on the way to tracking down the bioweapon in Carpenter Street.


_Author's Note: This was written in response to a Trek BBS writing challenge, "Doppelgänger." The assignment was to have a Star Trek character meet a character from a different show or movie who is played by the same actor or actress. _

_Spoilers: "Carpenter Street." _

**Bonnie and Clyde in Detroit, 2004**

Jon was starting to get the hang of driving this old truck. He pressed down smoothly on the right pedal with his foot; T'Pol barely stirred in her seat. Her eyes were glued to the padd in her hand, navigating along the grid pattern she'd set up to find what they were looking for. She glanced up only briefly as he reached for the audio control; he tried a few buttons before settling on some nineteenth century orchestral music. Much better than the cacophonous blast of craziness which had scared the wits out of him when he'd first started the ignition. "Is that okay?" he asked his First Officer, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the music speakers.

"It is agreeable," she replied mildly.

Now, with a few moments' practice, reading the impossibly small street signs while simultaneously trying to keep the unwieldy vehicle on the correct side of the faint yellow line seemed a bit easier. He tried to match his speed to the occasional white signs flashing by, even staying a bit under the posted maximum limit. The fossil fuel indicator light had gone out; he figured he must have at least another hour of driving before they'd need to fill the tank up again. The stink of the gasoline lingered where he had spilled a few drops onto his boot.

Suddenly, the blackness of the night was broken by a flashing blue light. T'Pol looked up, and craned her neck to locate the source. Jon glanced into his mirror and realized that the lights were emanating from a car behind them. With a sinking feeling, he realized he was being pulled over by the police. That much he remembered from old movies. It was rarely a good sign.

He eased to a stop at the curb without using his directional, and quietly explained to T'Pol that she should let him do the talking. "And please, don't call me 'Captain,' whatever you do." T'Pol nodded once, and checked to make sure her ears were completely covered by her hair.

A beam of light appeared at the driver's side window. Jon fumbled to lower the glass. "License and registration please," the disembodied male voice said.

"Er, license and registration," Jon stalled, not having a clue what either of those terms meant.

"Let me see your driver's license and the registration for this vehicle," the voice clarified impatiently.

Jon patted his pockets, as if he were simply absent-minded and not, in fact, operating a stolen vehicle with no valid identification whatsoever. T'Pol popped open the glove compartment and removed a few pieces of paper. "Perhaps one of these, Cap- Jonathan," she suggested, passing them over.

The man at the window stepped back and angled his flashlight at the documents. He was a middle aged man in a Detroit police officer uniform, with a short brush-cut to his black hair. He already looked pissed. After glancing at the documents, he directed the flashlight beam back into the truck. "Your license, Mr. Gabrieli?"

Jon engaged his most charming smile. "I, uh, I'm afraid I left my wallet in my other pants," he tried.

The officer glared at him. "Stay in the vehicle, and keep your hands on the wheel," he snapped, and backed away toward the cruiser parked behind the truck.

"We could stun them," T'Pol commented.

"We've already stolen a truck and robbed a bank machine. I'd rather not add assaulting a police officer to our list of felonies," Jon said wryly. Somehow, when he'd pictured stepping into the past to stop the Xindi Reptilians from destroying his home planet, his imagination had stopped short of a Bonnie and Clyde scenario.

The officer was back, and now Jon could see that he had his hand planted firmly on his sidearm. He also had backup, a petite blond woman, also in uniform, standing slightly behind and to his left. "Step out of the vehicle, sir," the male officer directed curtly, "and keep your hands where I can see them. Do not try anything, because I _will_ shoot you."

Jon threw a slightly panicked look at T'Pol, acutely aware that twentieth century projectile weapons did not have a stun setting. He opened the door slowly and unfolded himself from the seat. Before he was fully upright, the male officer spun him around and slammed him against the cab of the truck. His feet were forcibly spread apart, and all of his weight rested on his right shoulder, his left arm bent painfully behind him. Rough hands traveled up and down his legs; a forearm jammed between his shoulder blades as a hand patted his pockets. Jon swore under his breath the instant the searching hand rested on the solid form of his phase pistol and drew it slowly out of his jacket pocket.

He heard a soft, "What the -" from the female officer, and then a chuckle. "Doesn't look like anything to get worked up about, Mullane, it's just a toy, or maybe a prop." Jon hoped neither officer would test that theory by pressing any buttons. He tried to turn his head, but all that earned him was another shove against the truck.

"Search the passenger," Officer Mullane ordered.

"I don't think we have -" his partner began, but was cut off with a snarled, "_Do _it, Simmons." Simmons moved to the passenger side door and opened it. "Step out of the vehicle, ma'am?" she requested politely, as if she were unsure of her own authority.

T'Pol was handled much more gently, perhaps even tentatively, as she alighted from the truck. Still, Jon heard her sharp intake of breath as the Vulcan woman was pat-frisked intimately by human hands. Then Officer Simmons asked gently, "What's your name, uh, ma'am?"

T'Pol's gaze briefly met Jon's over the top of the truck before she answered, "T'Pol of Vul-" Jon widened his eyes and furrowed his brow. T'Pol swallowed the rest of the word and started again. "Paula. Vulcan. Paula Vulcan."

"Ms. Vulcan, do you have any identification?" Simmons asked.

"I do not," she replied flatly, and the female officer, obviously a rookie, seemed to have no idea what to do next. Jon's officer, by contrast, seemed on edge and twitchy, and he tightened his grip on the trapped arm. "Put her in cuffs and call for backup, Simmons."

"I, er," Simmons stammered, "what for?"

"Take a look at the ignition, genius," Mullane said, sounding even more annoyed. "Notice anything missing?"

Simmons peered inside the truck, illuminated now by the overhead dome light. "I, uh ..."

"_God_, you're a dumb rookie. No keys. Truck's hot." Mullane reached for the handcuffs attached to his utility belt.

Jon had a sudden vision of himself, rotting forever in a lock-up somewhere in downtown Detroit, waiting for nobody to come and bail him out because the only people who even knew of his existence would not exist themselves for another hundred years, while the Xindi finished up their plan to annihilate Earth. And on the heels of that distressing image came another: the free-for-all that would result once one of these pre-warp yahoos got a load of T'Pol's elegant Vulcan ears. Oh, no; he'd been down this road once before, and there would be no cavalry charging to the rescue this time.

Before his plan had even fully formed in his mind, he lashed out with his free elbow, catching an off-guard Mullane on the chin. The officer was built like a tank, though, and the surprise attack only bought Jon a fist to the head. He went down, seeing stars.

The rookie, Simmons, immediately sprinted around to the driver's side of the truck, leaving T'Pol standing by herself. She skidded to a halt, hands coming up in supplication, for Mullane had drawn his service weapon and now had it firmly pressed to Jon's temple. Simmons looked off to the side, muttering, "What the hell do I do now?" Then she seemed to pull herself together, and said in a low voice, "Okay, okay, gotta get this situation under control. Okay." Hands still up, as if she were the prisoner, she coaxed, "Mullane, just - just take it easy. Let me just get the cuffs on the guy and nobody needs to get hurt here." She used a soft, soothing tone, which didn't seem to penetrate Mullane's rage at all. Still, she kept murmuring, trying to convince somebody, anybody, that there was no reason for anyone to get killed.

As she came within inches of the two men, she heard a faint whine, and Mullane crumpled to the ground. A split second later, her whole body went numb, and she blacked out, vaguely aware of being lowered gently to the cold pavement.

T'Pol tucked her phase pistol, which she had hidden beneath her seat while opening the glove compartment, back into her jacket pocket. She bent down and offered a hand to assist her captain to his feet. Jon shook his head sharply, his ears still ringing from Mullane's mighty punch. He looked at the two officers, both lying unconscious on the street, and groaned. How much more screwed up could this mission get? He hooked his hands beneath Mullane's arms and dragged him to the relative safety of the sidewalk, out of traffic, at least. T'Pol did the same with Simmons.

Taking the driver's seat again, he checked to make sure they had both phase pistols, and all of their other wholly unexplainable gadgets, then stomped on the foot pedal to make the car peel noisily down the street. He didn't care about finesse at the moment; all he wanted was to get as far away from the scene of their third crime as fast as possible. "Are you all right?" he finally managed.

"I am not harmed," T'Pol replied, maddeningly calm. "Should I expect a formal reprimand?" At Jon's confused glance, she elaborated, "For disobeying your order not to stun the police officers."

Despite himself, Jon laughed. "How can I reprimand you for something that happened before I was born?" He remembered to turn on the headlights. "What direction am I going in?"

Blocks behind the fleeing time travelers, Simmons shook herself awake, an urgent voice echoing in her ear. "Man, what the hell just happened?" she groaned.

"I don't know," her companion said. "I looked away for just a second and suddenly you were out cold. But you did it. I have no idea how, but you did it."

Simmons sat on the curb and eyed her partner. "He's okay?"

"Oh, yeah," her friend replied. "He'll wake up in a few minutes. More importantly, he didn't shoot that guy in the head, and he doesn't get drummed off the force or indicted for murder; in fact, he makes detective in two years. All you had to do was keep him calm until -"

"Until that little woman could knock me out? I don't know what that Vulcan woman hit me with but, _jeez_!"

The gadget her friend was holding began to beep crazily. "_Gawd_, Ziggy's going _mental_ here." A few slaps brought louder squawking. "Hey, get this! You know that massive plague outbreak in two thousand five, started in the Detroit area? Killed thousands of people before it was contained? Nobody could ever prove which terrorist organization was behind it?" Simmons shook her head; oh well, that information must have slipped through one of the holes in the brilliant but Swiss-cheesed brain. Whatever. "Well, Ziggy says, the plague never happens. At all."

"What does that have to do with me stopping Mullane from shooting some unarmed, unidentified civilian?" Simmons asked impatiently.

Her friend shrugged. "Oh, I dunno. Probably nothing. I just thought it was interesting." Mullane, still on the ground, began to stir. "Hey, Officer Friendly there is starting to wake up. Oh, _Lucy_, I think you may have some _'splaining_ to do . . ."

A mysterious smile began to cross Simmons' face. "Um, no, Al, I don't think so." A blue light seemed to envelop her, and the Leaper leaped.

_In case you haven't guessed, the actor in common is Scott Bakula, who appeared in Star Trek: Enterprise and Quantum Leap. Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount, and Quantum Leap and its characters are the property of Bellasarius. _


End file.
